


Il Mio Tesoro

by annecoulmanross, ariadneolorin



Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020), The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: James Fitzjames Can’t Express His Feelings Unless He’s Walking, M/M, Smooching Cute Crusaders in Malta, What Happened in Malta (The Old Guard), What Happens in Malta Stays in Malta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:06:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26324614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annecoulmanross/pseuds/annecoulmanross, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadneolorin/pseuds/ariadneolorin
Summary: Dashing young midshipman James Fitzjames spends an enjoyable night in Malta during the autumn of 1833; feat. a Mozart opera, two handsome and mysterious strangers, and “a clearly defined and unexplained ‘X.’”A crossover betweenThe Old Guard(2020) and AMC’sThe Terror(2018).You really don’t need to be familiar withThe Old Guardin order to understand this fic; that being said, if you haven’t yet watchedThe Old Guard,we strongly recommend you do so!
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolo di Genova/James Fitzjames, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 14
Kudos: 33





	Il Mio Tesoro

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to @[kaserl](https://kaserl.tumblr.com) for the beautiful editing work! (And from Tullia – thank you Ariadne for getting me into _The Old Guard,_ and for allowing me to drag you so deep into _The Terror_ in return!) 
> 
> (Content warnings relevant to the film are included in the end note, if you need them.)

_Il mio tesoro intanto  
andate a consolar,  
E del bel ciglio il pianto  
cercate di asciugar._

This man, he is my treasure:  
Go forth, and comfort him,  
That he might not suffer ever;  
Go and tend his every whim. 

Translated (very _very_ loosely) from Lorenzo Da Ponte’s libretto for Mozart’s opera _Don Giovanni_ (1787) 

– ~ – ~ –

“Do you know, I was thinking about Malta.”

“What time in Malta?”

“Oh, _that_ time in Malta.”

(from _The Old Guard_ )

– ~ – ~ – 

**_Valletta, the capital city of the Crown Colony of Malta, October of 1833_ **

James Fitzjames stepped out of the opera house into the warm autumn evening. 

Humming a part of _Là ci darem la mano_ as he surveyed the street in front of him, James saw that the corners of the buildings were dark with shadows, despite the efforts of the lamp-lighters. Malta was a revelation, even now, after the months – off and on – that James had spent on the island: everything ancient and yet also brand new, a multitude of cultures and languages mixing before James’s eyes. And the theatre! James almost didn’t want to leave. 

As he ventured out on the cobble-stones of the street, James wondered what had happened to the two men he’d met during intermission, after he’d slipped away from the crowd of other navy boys tediously picking their way through the plot of the opera that none of them had been able to fully grasp. James’s rudimentary Italian – aided by his far better Portuguese – had served him well the three times he’d seen this opera performed, and he had no interest in hearing this newest batch of young Englishmen trying to figure out the narrative of _Don Giovanni._ James understood it plenty well enough, and the two men lingering at the end of the corridor – not British, certainly, and very far from navy-issue – had been far more interesting. 

They had been an unusual pair, James thought: an Italian, a man with icy, shadowed eyes but also a soft, ready smile; and his taller friend, bearded and brown and serious with his lovely dark curls, looking much like some of the men James had met when he’d been to Troy that summer. Both men wore elegant but understated civilian clothes that revealed nothing of their origins, their coats in shades of dark green and grey – though the tall man’s waistcoat was made from a pale blue brocade that James envied. 

James had approached, walking down the gilded hallway after exchanging a look with the both of them, a glance laden with meaning. James had learned a thing or two about what such looks between men might, in fact, mean. In Constantinople, in Nauplia, in Corinth....

_Hullo,_ James had said. 

_Are you enjoying the opera?_ James had said. 

_How do you like Malta?_ James had said. 

And they’d given the polite answers, echoing his English, but then the Italian man had murmured a word of French to his companion and James had switched into French as well, so as to be gracious, and then it was as though a whole new world had opened before him: a broad grin had crossed the bearded man’s mouth and he’d baited James into pouring out stories in Italian; his partner had smiled gently at him as James had spoken. When interval music had ended – a signal that the intermission was over – the Italian man with the beautiful, haunted eyes had laid a light hand on James’s arm, sending shivers up to his shoulder. 

_Grazi, caro – riguardati? Alla prossima–_ he’d said, and oh, how James had wished there might be a next time...

But indeed, just as James slipped out of these memories, he spotted a familiar silhouette – the tall, bearded man, leaning against the arching rough-stone frame of the opera house’s side door. 

“Buona sera,” James said as he approached, since the gentleman was facing away. James knew better than to surprise any man with the look of a soldier, here in the Med, where new conflicts began as soon as the old ones had ended. 

The tall man turned to look at him, a half-smile on his lips. “Ah, the young Englishman with the taste for poetry.” 

James went red, blushing at both of the traits ascribed to him. He’d told them nothing of his background, of course; they’d assumed, understandably, from his uniform, from his accent. But he _had_ told them about his ambitions to write up some of his adventures in verse, about re-reading Homer when he was in Greece and dreaming of battles under crumbling columns, and this man had shared a look of amusement with his friend – or perhaps it had been a look of indulgence. James had felt very young indeed, and a little conscious of himself attending the theatre on his own, turning away the unremarkable company of the other navy boys. 

Of course, at just this moment, the tall man’s Italian companion appeared from behind a corner. “Oh, il passerotto is back again?” he asked, and moved around James to lean against the wall beside his companion. Their arms brushed as he settled against the wall. The tall man glanced over at him, lips curving in a tender smile, the one that seemed reserved just for the Italian. James looked out over the street, trying to give them a moment of privacy, for those smiles that the years and memories had etched within them were not for him, he was sure. 

“Scusi,” James said quietly, worried about interrupting the moment. He was already turning away, “I must be going, early morning and–”

“Wait.” It was the tall man. “Surely it is not yet so late?”

“And would you leave us without even a name?” said his companion. “Or shall you be Little Sparrow forever?”

James allowed a slight laugh to escape and turned back to them. “James Fitzjames, at your service.” He swept an elaborate bow such as the boys on the _Madagascar_ used to offer, jokingly, to poor Prince Otto. “And, in all fairness,” he asked, “might I also know your names, gentlemen?” 

“Yusuf al-Kaysani,” said the tall man. James knew just enough of Arabic to place the name’s origins, but not enough to know what it meant. 

“And I am Nicolò di Genova,” added the Italian. “As Yusuf says, it is not yet so late. Please, join us for a drink?”

James bit his lip, tempted. He looked at the man – Nicolò – and saw the gleam of interest in the lines of his face. James wavered. 

In the end, however, it was the careful brush of Yusuf’s hand that decided for him. At the gentle touch, James realized that Nicolò had discreetly taken his companion’s hand when he had leaned beside him, against the opera-house wall, and now, when Yusuf’s long, clever fingers ran along his own, James saw how close the three of them stood, and realized that he didn’t want to pull away. 

So James Fitzjames straightened his shoulders, almost – if not quite – of a height with Yusuf, and nodded. “I would like that very much,” he said, turning his hand to offer his palm to the man’s gently questing fingers. 

Yusuf smiled a rare grin. “Alora,” he said, and nodded his head toward the street.

Their hands separated decorously, but James imagined that the ghost of the touch lingered upon his palm. 

The place to which Yusuf and Nicolò took him lay hidden within a warren of darkened alleyways not far off the Strada Stretta, where James knew many of his fellow naval officers would be taking advantage of the red light district’s offerings. But once James ducked into the dimly-lit room behind Yusuf, the bustle of low voices was somewhat reassuring – the atmosphere was not unlike the portside pubs he’d come to know the world over. 

Nicolò led them over to a candle-lit table in the corner. “We won’t be bothered,” he said, sounding certain. James realized that there were few women in the establishment, and many of those who were there were dressed in men’s attire, as he’d seen in certain places in Brazil back in ’26. James relaxed. 

Though Nicolò soon disappeared – presumably off to find drinks for the three of them – Yusuf settled confidently into the chair in the corner and looked over James with a subtle gleam in his eyes. 

“And do you have any interests other than poetry?” 

James creased his brow, wondering what to say. He knew that his enthusiasm could scare others off – it had happened before. 

“I’m not a bad shot with a rocket, and I started a newspaper once,” he offered, trying not to appear too boastful. “And I sketch.”

This last statement seemed the right answer, however, for Yusuf’s shoulders relaxed and he leaned forward. “You sketch?” he asked. 

James nodded, pleased. “I have–” His small journal, he’d tucked that into the pocket of his uniform coat, in case there had been no one to talk with during the intermission. 

That hadn’t been a problem, in this case. 

Now, he pulled out the little leather-bound volume, and handed it over to Yusuf, opening to a page on which he’d tried to render the silhouette of HMS _Madagascar_ against the glowing lights of the Greek coastline. 

Yusuf traced his fingers lightly across the page beside the sails, taking care not to smudge the graphite lines. A soft smile played across his lips as he examined the drawing. After several long moments he raised his eyes to James’s and lifted one corner of the page in silent inquiry. James nodded and Yusuf slowly paged through the book. 

James tried not to fidget. His hands seemed awkward no matter where he put them. He wanted something to hold. He tucked his hair behind his ear for the fourth time. James didn’t usually think of himself as nervous, his confidence – his escapades – were well known among his fellow sailors, but there was something about these men that made James want to impress them. 

Yusuf glanced up at James’s movement and something of his feeling must have shown on his face. Yusuf reached across the table and placed his hand on James’s. 

“This work is magnificent, passerotto,” he said, voice encouraging. “You see the light, the mist, the sea? That softness, it feels very real. Hard to do that without charcoal. Beautiful – thank you for sharing it with me.” 

James could feel the heat of his blush across his cheeks. He looked down at the long-fingered brown hand that covered his own. He could feel old calluses on Yusuf’s fingers, smooth to the touch, well-worn in. Yusuf gave his hand a gentle squeeze just as Nicolò returned, setting down three glasses on the table before them – claret, for James; something rich and sweet-smelling for Yusuf; and the third, white wine, Nicolò kept for himself. James reached for his own glass and wrapped his fingers around it, tracing around the rim absently. He could feel his heart pounding; he was sure that if he looked down at his chest he would be able to see it beating through his shirt and coat. 

Nicolò pulled out the chair and sat beside James. “Ah,” he picked up James’s journal. “May I?”

James nodded and Nicolò began to examine the drawings with care. Yusuf stroked Nicolò’s wrist with one finger then raised his glass to his lips. James followed suit and the smooth taste of the bitter red wine settled his nerves a little. 

“How did you find this place?” James asked. 

Yusuf laughed. “There’s always a place like this,” he said. “It’s usually mostly just a matter of knowing where to look. Or whom to talk to.” He winked. 

James flushed.

“Passerotto, these drawings are beautiful. You have an eye for details.” Nicolò handed back the journal. His flashing eyes caught and held James’s for a moment. There was an unconscious intensity to him, as though each word and action had a weight, but his tone turned light and playful when he added, “Yusuf, amore mio, don’t tease him too much. You’ll ruffle his feathers.”

“How did you two meet?” James asked, desperate to change the subject. Any more compliments from these two and he thought he might expire.

Yusuf and Nicolò shared another one of their looks. 

“We were on opposite sides of a conflict,” Yusuf said, eventually. 

_Perhaps the Greek Revolution?_ James wondered – Yusuf could very well be Ottoman, and James knew that there were Italian philhellenes who had fought and died and been honored among the brave foreign fallen in the memorials at Nauplio. 

But neither man said anything more, and James didn’t intend to press. Before the silence grew long again, James felt himself reaching for yet another question, feeling as though he were dancing around the mystery of these men – drawing close once more and then further away. 

“Had you seen _Don Giovanni_ before?” James asked. 

Nicolò smothered a laugh. 

“Yes,” Yusuf said, some shared joke lingering in his voice. “Several times.” 

“We saw it in Prague,” Nicolò offered.

Yusuf nodded. “Amadè would have appreciated the staging of the overture tonight, non trovi?” 

Nicolò answered with a shrug, “They did what they could with so narrow a stage.” 

_Amadè... Amadeus... the premier of_ Don Giovanni _in Prague... Amadeus Mozart writing the last pages of the music the day before the premier itself...._ James reeled. Surely not? That had been decades ago – half a century ago – long before James was born. These men couldn’t be more than ten or fifteen years older than himself... 

“How was it done in Prague?” James asked, cautiously. 

Nicolò began describing the performance, the grand theatre, the excitement of the crowd, the reactions of “Amadè,” but James was watching Yusuf, who looked at him with his brow peaked and a knowing grin upon his lips. 

As the night lengthened, their conversation meandered from topic to topic. Around them people came and went, a candle burned down and was replaced. The bright light of the new candle shone in the deep red of James’s claret when he raised his glass to sip. Yusuf and Nicolò exchanged soft touches, brushes against hands or cheeks; once, Yusuf leaned in, pressing his lips to Nicolò’s in a quick kiss. James no longer looked away. There was something tight in his chest, almost painful, but it was a pain he relished. He wished he could draw them here, capture this moment before it became mere wisps of memory, no more than candle smoke and fading dreams. 

“What would _you_ wish for, passerotto?” asked Nicolò, bringing James’s attention back to the moment. A bit startled, James almost voiced the impossibilities in his head before he realised that the man meant here, now, only. 

James tapped a finger against the table as he thought about how to ask – for the night not to end here, for answers about these enchanting men, for something _more._ “I would wish,” James said, at last. “To know more of you.” 

This was said with a smile to make it an innuendo, but Nicolò took all of it in stride, both the casual intimation and the truth beneath it. “That can be accomplished,” he said, all confidence. It was not flirting – not exactly, not in the sense that James was used to, where everything was posturing and shame and the fear of discovery. There was nothing sly or cautious about it. 

Yusuf turned to him, then. “What else?” he asked, and his earnestness demanded a real answer. 

James swallowed, and lifted his head high to meet Yusuf’s testing gaze. “To know more of myself,” he replied. 

Yusuf smiled, and placed his hand palm up on the table. 

It was Nicolò who asked, at last, “So, then, would you like to come back to ours?” 

James nodded. He undeniably _did_ want that. 

He placed his hand in Yusuf’s. 

The two men led James out into the cool night air. The breeze carried the salt scent up from the harbor and James breathed in deeply. The sea was out there, beyond these streets and houses, and it too would always welcome him back. Nicolò and Yusuf linked arms with him as they walked down the narrow alleys and up broad avenues. They climbed a tall flight of steps, and at the top James could see the glint of the sea far out on the horizon. Nicolò sang a few lines of a song as they stood there. It was not in any language James knew but there was something so distant in his eyes that James didn’t dare break the moment to ask. Yusuf smiled slightly and reached across James to squeeze Nicolò’s shoulder and the other man turned back, once again in the present. James felt warm standing there between them. 

“Who would you be, passerotto?” asked Yusuf as they began walking once more. 

James did not immediately respond. Perhaps he gave the question more consideration than it was due, but there was something about this night and these men that made him want to be honest, to take their words with a seriousness that would have surprised many of his crewmates. 

“I’d like–” James began. “I’d like to stop hiding. As much as I can.” There were an endless number of things that the world could never know about James, starting on the day he was born and stretching in a long, unbroken line through the realities of his childhood and the lies that had accrued throughout his career, all the way up to the present moment and the secret ways James’s heart beat at the idea of these two men and their obvious love for each other. It was, none of it, anything that the world could know. The frustrations and set-backs of his illegitimacy – not least among which was the agony of knowing his background was under scrutiny that very moment, as the naval hierarchy determined whether to permit James to advance any further up the ladder – James knew he would still have to keep those things to himself; but more than that, James was finished with the bone-deep exhaustion of hiding his joy, his love. 

Here, at least, he could set that burden down, James thought, as Yusuf gave him a look of warm contentment, and Nicolò glanced back at them with a bright look in his eyes. 

As they walked, James began to mention more of his experiences: youthful discoveries of his interest in other boys; his passion for the sea; his foster-father’s dedication in advancing his career, that James might succeed in the navy as he’d always dreamed; even how James felt, at moments, not quite a man at all, but rather a person more comfortable in skirts and jewels. Through all of it, James’s companions offered quiet words of support, as their path spiraled further through the streets, up crumbling stone stairways to the brow of the hill that stretched like a spine atop the city. 

At last, James found himself stopping when Yusuf, beside him, came to a halt. They stood in a small courtyard – and, at the end, there was a nondescript door. 

Nicolò withdrew a key from his coat-pocket and unlocked the door, ushering James in with a gallant sweep of his arm.

Inside, James found a comfortable set of rooms, obviously arranged for two: books left upon the small side-tables on both ends of a settee; grand, arcing windows looking out onto the still-glowing lights of Valletta; and a large bed, both sides looking slightly rumpled – slept-in. 

On one wall, near the four-poster bed, James glimpsed an oil painting, a landscape of desert and high walls gleaming in the morning light. Though he’d never seen it in person, James recognized the subject matter immediately: the eight-sided building and its grand leaded dome, clearly the shrine at the center of Jerusalem, the _Templum Domini,_ the heart of the Holy Land. 

James stepped closer to the painting, lost in the careful rendering of the shrine’s architecture, its elaborate tiles and delicate pillars, the way the harsh sunlight caught on the edges of the sharp walls and set the whole structure aglow. 

“This,” James said. “This is gorgeous.” 

Yusuf came up beside him, smiling. “Thank you,” he said, glancing at Nicolò, and then back at James. “I wanted to capture a little of our history.” 

“You painted this?” James asked, bewildered. “You did not tell me you were an artist.” 

“Only when I wish,” Yusuf laughed. He was very close now, James realized. Stepping even closer, until he had to lift his face to meet Yusuf’s gaze, James felt his heart beating erratically once more. 

Lifting one brow in question, Yusuf raised a hand to cradle the back of James’s head. James licked his lips and nodded ever-so-slightly, and then Yusuf’s lips were on his own and the kiss consumed him. He felt wrapped in calm experience, the secure pressure of Yusuf’s hand beside his neck, the way he swallowed James’s inadvertent sounds of pleasure. 

When at last they broke apart, James opened his mouth to speak, but no words left his lips, distracted as he was by the new sensation of Yusuf’s mouth on his neck. 

Nicolò, behind him now, whispered against James’s ear, “Prima la musica, poi le parole,” and the words of Italian tumbled through James’s desire-numbed brain as Nicolò pressed a kiss to the back of James’s shoulder. _Music first, words later..._

Running his fingers down Yusuf’s chest, along the blue brocade waistcoat that he’d admired earlier, James paused to play with one of the buttons. “May I?” he asked. Yusuf assented, and James carefully pulled the button from its mooring, baring the thin shirt underneath as Yusuf began to return the favor. 

None of it was entirely new to James – especially not after this summer, the lines of careful ‘X’s marked in the margins of his journal after a number of eventful evenings across Greece – but this night would linger longer in James’s memory than any other evening from his time in the Med, in no small part because James felt so stunningly free of shame. This was nothing like the quick encounters he’d had before, with men who’d carried themselves with a brittle sort of pride, ever conscious of being judged – an attitude James had adopted as well, as some sort of self-preservation. But these two men were different, so caring in their attentions, ever open to sweetness and delight. 

At first, James was almost overwhelmed by the doubled attention. Yusuf and Nicolò moved as though they could anticipate each other’s every action. As they drew him into their embrace, it felt to James as though he were being invited to join masters in their dance. Gentle pressure from Nicolò’s hand encouraged James to lean back against him, allowing himself to relax into the circle of the other man’s arms. Nicolò’s fingers found the buttons of James’s shirt and flicked open the top few; he drew back the collar and pressed his lips to the base of James’s neck. James’s eyes met Yusuf’s, lips parting in a gasp. Yusuf’s shirt was already unbuttoned, hanging loosely. James wanted to run his fingers along that dark, muscular chest; he reached out a hand and moaned as Nicolò sucked hard on his neck. Yusuf’s eyes were dark as he moved closer and took James’s face in gentle hands. Yusuf lowered his mouth to James’s again, holding his gaze until their lips touched and James’s eyes closed against the tumult raging within him, caught just as he was between the two men. 

Yusuf and Nicolò carefully took him apart. Each pass of Yusuf’s hands across James’s skin lingered like brush strokes painted on new canvas. Only Nicolò’s steady arms around him held James upright. He pressed himself back into that strong chest even as his hands came up to clutch Yusuf’s shoulders, clinging to him as Yusuf’s tongue swept into his mouth again, sending shivers down James’s body. He shuddered and broke away, breathless. Nicolò caught his chin gently and turned James’s face to him. Those endless, intense eyes of his captured James for a moment and then there was just the feeling of his lips on James’s. His thumb stroked James’s cheek as he deepened their kiss. James’s hand came up to grip his arm, not trying to pull away, but simply wanting to touch as much as he could. He was barely conscious of his fingers stroking the inside of Nicolò's wrist, following the rhythm of their kiss. When they broke apart, James found that Yusuf had removed his shirt and finished unbuttoning James’s. Yusuf and Nicolò gently slid it from James’s shoulders and set it aside. Yusuf took James’s hand and led him forward. He drew James down to sit on the wide bed. 

“Passerotto,” he murmured and this time it was James who kissed him, nipping at Yusuf’s lower lip and sliding his hand into Yusuf’s lovely curls to hold him steady. The bed dipped as Nicolò joined them. His chest pressed against James’s shoulder as he leaned past him to kiss Yusuf as well, their mouths fitting together with the ease of long practice, and yet there was no denying the passion between them. They kissed as though each time were the first, the last, and every kiss in between. They were beautiful, thought James as they broke apart and turned towards him. Then there were two sets of hands, two mouths on his skin. James shuddered and yielded himself to sensation completely. 

– ~ – ~ –

Dawn was only just beginning to lighten the sky when James rose from the bed. As much as he longed to stay, he had promised to be at rehearsal early that morning. He gathered his clothes and dressed, murmuring an apology which was brushed aside with two gentle smiles.

At the door, James paused and looked back. His two companions still lay abed, speaking softly to each other in a language that James thought, mystifyingly, might be Greek. Yusuf had placed his hand upon Nicolò’s bare hip, his long brown fingers tracing the pale skin lovingly. James watched how they lay intertwined, their conversation as much in touch and in the position of their bodies as in the words they spoke. He found he no longer felt alone, separate from their sphere. They belonged to each other, now and forever, but this night with them had shown him what he hadn’t dared to imagine. He didn’t think, having seen what they had, he would ever be able to settle for a relationship of convenience, of unspoken arrangements that would never be mentioned in the light of day. James wanted this or nothing else. 

“If–” James said, hand still on the doorpost. The two men looked up at him, and James hesitated – but Nicolò smiled reassuringly. 

James swallowed. “If you are still in Malta,” he offered, “I’ll be performing in a theatrical two weeks hence – at the Governor’s Palace. It won’t be Mozart, but I think it may be a good time. You could come see it, if you like.” 

Yusuf smiled, and ducked his head to rest it against Nicolò’s brow. “Grazie, tesoro nostro – we would enjoy that, I think.” 

James grinned – he couldn’t help himself. 

– ~ – ~ –

**_Valletta, later in the month of October_ **

“ _Oh! my Tatlanthe!_ ” James called out, as earnestly as he could manage, to the great approval of the crowd arrayed before him. He smirked, holding his head high and allowing the sweep of his skirt to fall over his wrist, which was adorned with trailing strings of pearls. It was extravagant and entirely ridiculous – and James loved it. 

James continued, “ _Have you seen his face,  
His air, his shape, his mein, his ev’ry grace?  
In what a charming attitude he stands,  
How prettily he foots it with his hands!  
Well, to his arms – no, to his legs I fly,  
For I must have him, if I live or die._”

In the burst of laughter and enthusiastic applause that followed these last lines, James flew to stage left, and carefully hid himself behind the drape of the curtain. 

Breathing heavily from the effort of not bursting into laughter himself, James leaned back against the backstage wall and heard his fellow actors take the stage. He peeked out from behind the curtain to watch the action. The angle was a difficult one – James squinted against the bright lights that lit up the stage.

James nodded in approval as the actor playing the king – his husband, notionally, though not for long – sat up in bed and stretched enthusiastically, then began reciting his lines right on cue. 

Looking, then, beyond the spectacle of the bedchamber scene currently taking place, James’s eyes passed over the audience, taking in officers he knew from the St. Vincent, and some of the boys of the garrison, and various functionaries whom James tried not to think about as his mind contemplated the second round of his examinations looming ahead of him. 

Off to the opposite side of the theatre, however, where the seating was well-hidden in the shadows, James saw two familiar faces – Yusuf, smiling, with his arms crossed over his chest, and Nicolò, sitting beside him and hiding his face behind a hand, though his shoulders shook with laughter. 

Beyond Nicolò sat a woman in a deep blue dress. Though she seemed of an age with Yusuf and Nicolò, the lines of her face were stern and made her seem older in spirit. Nevertheless, at some foolish line from John Boyd’s boisterous Captain of the Guard, she cracked a begrudging smile. Beside her, a man with sandy hair watched the stage with mingled confusion and amusement. 

Then to his dismay, James heard the king, onstage, command, “ _Tell him I come; my flying steed prepare,_ ” – the cue for James’s queen to prepare to enter. James reluctantly dragged himself away, recommitting to the role with a shake of his carefully curled hair. 

After, after – after the play was finished and James had accepted the high-spirited congratulations of his fellow performers; after his friend and co-star John Boyd had kissed him roundly on the cheek, still laughing uproariously; after James had finally slipped away to loosen his corsetry – a quiet voice called him from the reverie that had come upon him in the wake of all the excitement. 

“Brava.” It was Nicolò, glee dancing in his eyes. “I am not sure I will ever recover from the laughter.” 

Behind him, Yusuf stood, smiling irrepressibly. “A beautiful turn,” he said, and stretched out a hand for James to take – and when James did, Yusuf spun him, once, twice, so that James’s skirts fluttered, gems casting the light like a thousand stars. 

When it ended, James stumbled, but Yusuf caught him effortlessly. “Bellissima, James,” he said. His voice was deep with approval and affection.

Nicolò’s steady hands came up to hold James’s hips, resting on the burgundy silk of his gown. “Are you happy, James?” he asked. 

James turned over his shoulder to smile at Nicolò and kiss his temple. “I feel like I may take flight at any moment,” he replied. “I am very happy.” 

Heart feeling tender within his chest, James pulled them closer, pressing one hand over Nicolò’s, on his hip; the other over Yusuf’s, on his shoulder. 

“Thank you – both of you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Tullia here, with some additional notes, as per usual – Ariadne helped enormously with the research, but I wrote these bits out, so any errors are mine!
> 
> **Content warnings:** For those of you unfamiliar with _The Old Guard,_ the conceit is that the main characters (Yusuf and Nicolò included) are immortal; Yusuf and Nicolò met each other during the crusades, so they’re approx. 750 years old apiece, here in 1833. James Fitzjames is 20 years old, so there’s an age gap. Not really avoidable, I’m afraid. For appearances sake, Yusuf and Niccolò look to be in their thirties. 
> 
> **Historical notes:** The phrase “a clearly defined and unexplained ‘X’” comes from William Battersby’s _James Fitzjames: The Mystery Man of the Franklin Expedition_ (2010). To Mr. Battersby – wherever you are now, in the world beyond – I really do hope you don’t mind the use to which I’ve put your research. Rest assured, I too merely want the best for our beloved James Fitzjames. (According to Battersby, the ‘X’ in Fitzjames’s journal from this period of his life “presumably signifies sex” and, during October of 1833, Fitzjames “went to the opera no less than seven times, seeing _Don Giovanni_ on four separate occasions,” one of which “coincided with the X of sex.” So, that’d be this night. Yes, the “The X of Sex,” would be a viable alternative title for this fic, probably. I’m sticking with the Italian endearments from _Don Giovanni,_ though.)
> 
> The opera house where all this starts is the Manoel Theatre in Valletta, built in 1732. (The Maltese Royal Opera House wasn’t built until 1866.) The Manoel Theatre honestly looks a lot like a narrower version of the performance venue where the _tableaux vivant_ scene in the first episode of _The Terror_ takes place, I think. As far as I can determine, that scene was filmed in the Hungarian State Opera House in Budapest. 
> 
> The painting in Yusuf and Nicolò’s apartment depicts the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem, as it’s now called. Nowadays, the dome is gilded, but it wasn’t yet in 1833. 
> 
> I’ve done my best with all the Italian in this fic, but it’s not one of my stronger languages, so if you see an error, do let me know! (Also, the feminine gendered terms used for James in the last scene are purposeful, and trust me, I know that the epigraph text from Da Ponte’s libretto is incredibly loosely translated – _that,_ at least, was also intentional. _Don Giovanni_ does not lend itself to sexy queer readings, not unless you modify heavily and let yourself ignore all the main character’s deeply problematic behavior.)
> 
> Y’all have probably gathered, by now, my obsession with James Fitzjames’s renowned performance in the role of Fadladinida, the Queen of Queerummania, in _Chrononhotonthologos, The Most Tragical Tragedy That Ever was Tragedized by Any Company of Tragedians_ (1734). You can read the script [here](https://www.chrononhotonthologos.com/script.htm). This did, in fact, take place in Malta at the end of October, 1833.


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